


The Vallaslin

by youworeblue



Series: Bloodied and Broken [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 00:35:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29909484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youworeblue/pseuds/youworeblue
Summary: Ixchel had not worn vallaslin when she had arrived at the Conclave as a girl. She had been too young, too new to the clan, to have earned them.Years have passed, and the Inquisitor has proved to the Dalish time and time again that she is one of the People. When she brings back the truth that Inquisitor Ameridan was a Dalish mage, Keeper Hawen clasped her on the shoulders and pressed a kiss to her brow and named her Lore-Finder, Secret-Keeper, Finder-of-Kin. And he had offered her the vallaslin of Dirthamen.Solas cannot in good conscience allow her to take them. Not without a warning.--Solas and Ixchel are not romantically involved. That doesn't mean they're not in Solavellan hell.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Lavellan & Solas
Series: Bloodied and Broken [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969189
Comments: 9
Kudos: 5





	The Vallaslin

**Author's Note:**

> This happens 4-5 years into the Inquisition. Probably Adamant has happened, and the Temple of Mythal, and the fic _Ruined Empires and Dust,_ in which Ixchel has figured out Solas's true identity. After Jaws of Hakkon, Ixchel takes the information that Ameridan was Dalish and brings it to Keeper Hawen personally. 
> 
> From _Dead Pasts, Dread Futures,_ Ixchel remembers:
> 
> _She had not worn vallaslin when she had arrived at the Conclave as a girl. She had been too young, too new to the clan, to have earned them. She had not even earned them from the Lavellan Keeper; Keeper Hawen had given them to her so many years afterward. When she first met him, she had tried to prove in every way possible that she was an ally, that she was more elf than human, that she was more Dalish than Chantry, and she had proved it to the moons and back. But it was when she sought out Hawen and told him the truth about Inquisitor Ameridan that the Keeper had clasped her on the shoulders and pressed a kiss to her brow and named her Lore-Finder, Secret-Keeper, Finder-of-Kin. And he had offered her the vallaslin of Dirthamen._
> 
> _Solas had pulled her aside as she prepared herself spiritually to take the honor, and he had told her of the true meaning behind their markings. It had been their first all-out fight—she had grabbed him by the coat and sat him down and shouted in his face, and he had gripped her by the shoulders and shook her, called her ungrateful—_
> 
> This is that moment.

“I must give you a warning, _da’len,”_ he said at last.

They had drawn away from where the clan had set up their aravels and reached the foot of yet another Guardian Wolf statue. Neither of them addressed the irony that they seemed haunted by his representation around every corner. But these statues were placed in places of quiet, and that was what they had required at the time.

Solas had been quiet ever since they left the Dalish camp; his fine brows were knitted tightly above his stormy eyes, and Ixchel knew better than to try and beg for his thoughts when he was like this. He would tell her soon enough. Usually, his brooding spoke more about how he felt about whatever he was about to reveal than it ever did about how she would receive it. Nothing he had ever told her had been unwelcome, in the end. She had long ago accepted that she needed counsel as Herald and as Inquisitor, and she valued perspective given from any source. Especially that which he had gained through his long existence. Especially when it was about her people and their history.

But a _warning?_

She wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

There were times when she forgot that he was not simply _Elvhen_ , as she had come to refer to the ancient elves who walked modern Thedas. There were times when she forgot that he was far more powerful than he let on. There were times when she forgot that he had walked among the Evanuris as one of their own. And then, sometimes, the age of him, the weight of his many memories, came into sharp resolution. Usually it was in the weight of his grief. Very, very rarely, she heard it in something akin to anger. Now, it was in his weariness. Whatever the Dread Wolf thought to warn her of, she knew to heed it well.

Yet all the same, beneath Solas might be the Dread Wolf—but beneath the Dread Wolf, there was Solas, too. It would not do well to forget that. So no matter how her concern mounted upon hearing that he had a warning for her, she had assessed him and his mood and adopted a casual stance; she knew it would not escape his notice. He was better versed in the Game than she was, had far more experience in reading people and their mannerisms. He should know that she was resolved to hear, and listen, and accept, whatever it was he was about to tell her.

His brow remained clouded with concern of his own.

They stood in silence for a moment as they regarded one another.

Finally, Ixchel let out a breath. “May I hazard a guess, _lethallin?”_ she asked.

And like that—with one question—she broke through the grim shadow that had fallen upon him. He couldn’t help the small twitch of his lips into a smile, so he turned away from her to hide it. “I will hear it, _da’len.”_

“Your warning…it’s about the vallaslin. Or about the ritual that surrounds it.”

He said nothing, so she continued on.

“As to the contents of your warning… The Dalish believe the vallaslin honor their gods. And I _know_ that the Dalish gods were merely mages,” she assured him. “They ruled an empire, squabbled like children, laid waste to one another’s peoples as though they were meaningless casualties.” She watched his back as she spoke; he stood straight, hands laced behind his back, but his head was bowed under a great weight. “There were no other kings. There were the gods, and _their_ people. They were…owned. The vallaslin honored the Evanuris, but not in the way the Dalish believe.”

Solas’s head bobbed in a short nod. “They are slave markings,” he clarified, still without looking at her. “The Evanuris would not stand challenges to their rule. But those who were elevated above the rest… Or those who sought favor of the Evanuris… They would mark their slaves in honor of a particular god. After Arlathan fell…the Dalish forgot.”

Ixchel stared at his back for a moment. She had already heard the conclusion in his voice: _do not take them._ The warning: _you should not take them_. And beneath it all, carefully hidden, the loathing, the distaste—the _personal_ affront: _I do not want you to take them._

Ixchel was torn. She wanted to ask more questions: how could the vallaslin have persisted, even under the rule of the Imperium? Did the markings have magical significance as well? Were the variations that the Dalish wore the same as those from Elvhenan, or had they changed over the ages?

But most of all, Ixchel wanted to ask: _have you seen what they have become?_

She stared at his back and saw the tense line of his spine.

Then, she swiftly walked around to his front. “It was not the _Dalish_ who corrupted this knowledge, Solas,” she said with a frown. “How do you know it was not the Elvhen, after the cataclysm? Free of the Evanuris, free to turn slave-markings into badges of pride? Or do you know if that knowledge was beaten out of them with their language and their traditions by Tevinter? The _Dalish_ are all that remains of the kingdom they won back _thousands of years_ after the fall of Arlathan. Have you heard a single word of what the vallaslin mean to them? Have you been paying attention to what the _Dalish_ believe _themselves_ to represent? ‘We are the last—’”

“Do not speak to _me_ of pride,” he interrupted, and the note in his voice undercut her impassioned speech in an instant. He towered over her, hedge mage no longer. With his shoulders square and his jaw set, he cut his eyes in a glare that spoke volumes that he might never speak. “The Dalish are _not_ the last Elvhen. And you deserve better than what those cruel marks represent.”

Ixchel felt as though he had slapped her across the face twice over in the same breath. Heat flooded her face—not anger, not fear, not shame. Perhaps it was remorse. He was wrong; she had not changed her mind about that. But he was not senseless, not without empathy. But perhaps _she_ was, for assuming that his warning had not accounted for all that.

“For everything I have said of the Dalish,” he continued, nostrils flaring with frustration, “I admire that indomitable spirit. But that is not what the vallaslin means in their eyes. The vallaslin will dedicate you to their gods.”

“That is _not_ what it means to _me_ ,” she said quietly.

The slight wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened. “I know what it means to you, _da’len_. But if you must receive these markings to feel welcome… Consider what it means, that their welcome is so conditional.”

Ixchel shook her head. “That’s not it,” she protested. “They called me Lore-Finder. Secret-Keeper. _Finder-of-Kin_. I want that written _all across my face_ , and if this ink and blood are how I choose to do so, can’t you see the honor in that?”

Her voice had risen as she spoke, and tears pricked at her eyes as she tried to get Solas to understand. But even as she spoke, she could see his face hardening into a cold mask. It infuriated her to know that there had to be something she was missing—a piece of information that undoubtedly rendered everything she was saying moot in his mind—something that he had not _deigned_ to tell her. She fisted both hands in his coat as though she could draw him back out of his haunted past to look her in the eye and recognize the girl in front of him. Just because she didn’t know his full rationale didn’t mean that hers was without merit in its own right. If he could just _look_ at her—

“I’m not honoring the Evanuris, and I’m not just trying to prove that I’m an elf in the eyes of the Dalish. I’m honoring Ameridan, and all the elves who have been forgotten except by _this_ elf!”

“I _am_ one who has been forgotten,” he said coldly. “Do I not have a say in how I am remembered?”

 _That_ hit her in a tender place. Anger born out of embarrassment and shame rose up in her, but before she could open her mouth to snap at him, he was speaking again.

“I _invented_ a spell that removes vallaslin, Ixchel.”

“Then you should be thankful that there are no vallaslin for Fen’Harel,” she said, before she could stop herself.

All at once, his mask shattered. He had his hands on her shoulders, fingers dug so hard into her flesh that it _hurt_. She stumbled back and loosened her grip on his coat as she tried to catch her balance, but then she took another step back when she saw the look in his eye.

 _“Thankful?”_ he said disbelievingly. “ _You_ should be thankful that the Evanuris are not here to _reclaim_ the meaning of their markings! _You_ do not know what was sacrificed, what was _lost_ , for you to have the freedom to twist this _ink_ into _whatever you’d like_. _You_ should be grateful that you do not see what I see when I look upon these symbols that you would willingly take on!”

Ixchel pushed at his chest, but he did not release her. So she shoved him harder, nearly punched him, really, until he staggered back, breathless—only to advance upon him again. “Can you not look past them and see _me_ , Solas?” she demanded. “You already seem practiced at looking past me anyway! I have done so much to prove to _you_ how I care for you and your grief, _lethallin_ ,” —she spat the word— “but it has _never_ been enough. If anything, it has only made it harder for you to look at me! If I say that I will _not_ take the vallaslin, would that change _anything?”_

And she drew up short, stunned at herself. But then the truth hit her truly, and she had to look away. She twisted her face to try and fight back the tears that threatened to fall, tried to swallow them and anything else she might say that would hurt.

Solas had regained his footing, but he did not straighten. He stooped beneath the immeasurable weight of all that she did not know and did not understand, summoned by her outburst.

“I do not look past you,” he said quietly.

She sniffed.

“I _do_ see you, Ixchel.”

Ixchel squeezed her eyes shut as she _shuddered_. “But if I am not worthy to be an elf in your eyes without the vallaslin, then I will never be enough,” she said roughly. “If you will not invest in me, then you are not allowed to be invested in this decision, Fen'Harel. I take the vallaslin for myself.”

“As you should,” he replied, but his voice was hollow. “You are right. I did not say this to disparage you, or what you have done. You…you should be proud. _Lethallan..._ I did not do this to…” He raised a hand to his face and seemed to catch himself. “I have never meant to hurt you, Ixchel.”

She clenched her fists and turned fully from him, in a reversal of their earlier positions. She tilted her head back to look up at the twin moons that hung above them, through the swaying canopy. “Then that, too, is my own doing,” she said, but her voice trembled.


End file.
